I'm Just Outside of Riften,

And I'm about to talk to the guard at the north gate when I hear this roar echo through the mountains. I look up, and way up above the city I see this dragon riding a thermal. Probably fifty feet from head to tail. Breathes fire. Mean as shit. And he's not even hunting. He's just showing off his wingspan and practicing his roar.

He's reminding everyone who really is in control of Skyrim, and it isn't Ulfric or the Empire.

"You bought this game because of meeee...."

So I casually lift up a hand, stretch out my digits, and out comes raw, magical energy like I've got an arcane firehose attached to my palm. You can't stand anywhere near it. You can't even look directly at it. Ask Lydia when she's not walking into trees. That bitch is completely blind.

The dragon flash-fries on the spot. He is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Dead before what's left of him ever hits the ground.

DEAD.

Now...
The only part I don't get about Skyrim--What I really don't get--Is why the hell, when I turn back to the guard who witnessed the whole thing, who just saw a dragon pop like a mosquito in a bug zapper, why does he think it's a good idea to go right ahead and attempt to shake me down for a few septims?

And why the fuck, when I tell the cocky bastard to get bent, do I fail my intimidate check? I told the guy, "Don't mess with me." and do you know what he did?

He laughed in my face.

I just stared at him as the ashes of a winged god fell down around us.

And that's the lesson here: crazy always wins, because I was outright terrified of this nutjob. You want a few septims? Sure. Go ahead. Just let me get into your dirty town so I can pawn off my garbage. Lydia, come on. Follow my voice.